


a model of heartache and grief

by lanvaldear



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: M/M, i have no idea what this is, warnings juuuuust in case for later maybe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 07:40:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1810591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanvaldear/pseuds/lanvaldear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roxas stood up, a little shaky on ghost-legs, and stared at his body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a model of heartache and grief

**Author's Note:**

> I have zero idea what this is supposed to be, but I hope it's at least readable. Maybe I'll continue, maybe not.

Roxas Lockwood was dead. Deader than dead.

At first, when he woke up, he didn't know he was dead. But then he'd looked down and saw that he was floating and see-through, and he'd nearly had a heart attack. Which would have definitely killed him, had he not been dead already. Instead, he'd let out a string of curses and tried to throw a vase against the wall in the seedy roadside motel room. His hand had passed right through, and then he'd landed on the floor.

How he didn't go right through the floor, too, he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of a lot of things, including how he'd died. At least, until he had turned his eyes up to the bed.

“Shit,” he cursed, and if ghosts could throw up, he'd have tossed his cookies right then and there. Of all the ways to die. Roxas's body was covered in blood—he didn't know a body could have that much blood—and it had dripped down to the floor. Roxas stood up, a little shaky on ghost-legs, and stared at his body.

“You sure got yourself into it this time, huh?” he murmured. He tried to touch his body, but his hand passed right through. Roxas looked over toward the table at the door and let out a grunt of frustration. He'd been on an assignment for the newspaper. Normal stuff, like crazed serial killers who preyed on young blond men. He'd only wanted to do a few interviews with people who'd thought they'd seen the guy before.

He thought he'd been careful enough. Never had he imagined actually being caught up in the guy's...hobbies. Roxas's ghost-stomach turned, and he crossed the room into the bathroom. The maniac wasn't sloppy, other than the horribly mangled body laying on the motel bed; of course not, since he'd gone years without getting caught. Everything else was meticulously cleaned. He ran a hand through his hair and drew in a sharp breath, then walked out into the room.

He might be dead, but he hoped to whatever higher power was out there—if there even was a higher power out there, Roxas didn't know nor did he really give half a shit—that the guy hadn't done other...unsavory things to him.

Roxas let out a low groan and a puff of air from ghostly lungs. Weird. But, alright, it was pretty much like being alive—other than the whole passing through solid objects and being invisible. Roxas shook his head and took one more glance at his body.

And, oh, did he regret ever taking that damned assignment. Now he'd become a statistic. People would mourn him, remember him...and then he'd become an example. Roxas barked out a laugh. He'd been careful. His parents had taught him not to trust strangers, not to go home with them, had taught him the lessons they thought they had to in order to be good parents.

“Lot of good that did me,” Roxas muttered. When it came down to it, really, you could be the most careful person in the world. But bad things may very well still happen to you. Roxas—and, he assumed, the other victims—was proof of that. Roxas's stomach did another flip, and he drew in a shaky breath. Whatever had happened to him in the past had been...well, whatever. But...

Roxas ran a hand through his hair—a nervous habit—and swallowed hard. Dread had settled in his stomach, and he let loose a string of muttered, under-the-breath curses. Naminé. Now that he was gone, who would take care of his sister? There was a lump in his throat that made it a little hard to swallow—did he even really have to do that?—and he tugged lightly on his own hair. She'd be devastated. And suddenly, his regret increased thousandfold.

At the same time, he felt a pull in the direction of his home. It was a curious thing, and one hard to ignore. The pull became more insistent, even after the door opened and a young woman clad in a black suit stepped in, her mouth set in a grim line. Roxas ignored the pull and watched with a sort of detached morbidity as more detectives and police poured in and got to work.

It was weird, hearing himself referred to as “John Doe.” Weirder still to watch them swab, take pictures of his own corpse when he was right there in the room.

Roxas let out a sigh, then turned away and left the motel room, following the pull. He wondered how long it'd take his sister to get a call. The feeling he'd had when he was watching the investigation ebbed away and dread replaced it. So he was dead. Well, he'd been careless. He was more worried for Naminé—why had he been so reckless when he had someone depending on him?

Then again, Naminé had always been strong. He knew her well—she'd grieve, quietly, and then she'd muster up the courage to keep going. And Roxas stopped dead, a new feeling crashing over him. He had always been proud of her. Always. His twin, sometimes, was more resilient than he was. So...why was he worried?

“Stop worrying, kid. You're dead. Whoever you left behind will accept that, and you're gonna have to, too.”

Roxas bristled and whirled around. Leaning against a tree—how did he do that?—was a redhead who was just as see-through as Roxas. The blond watched him warily. He was wearing a smirk Roxas wasn't sure he liked. This was the kind of guy he'd always steered clear of. Cocky. He looked like an asshole.

The pull was no more than a little nagging in the back of his mind, and Roxas wasn't sure how he felt about that. The redhead pushed off the tree and walked over to him, then leaned down and looked him right in the face. Roxas tensed again, took a step back.

And the asshole had the balls to laugh.

“Do I really look that scary?”

“I don't like people who think they can come up and invade my space, thanks,” Roxas replied, his voice low. Behind it was a warning. If the guy caught on, he didn't show it; he grinned instead, and he gave a little shrug. “Back off.”

“Whoa. Hey, I'm trying to be a decent guy, okay? Look, I've been dead for a while, and I know a hell of a lot more than you do.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, and Roxas noticed how green his eyes were. It was hard to look away. “So just think of me as your friendly guide, alright? Not often I feel like doing this.”

Roxas hesitated. He watched the guy for a while, then let out a breath and a soft grumble. “Fine.”

“That's more like it.” The grin hadn't faltered one bit; this guy was like the Cheshire Cat. It unnerved Roxas more than a little, even if he was pretty attractive. “Got a name?”

“Roxas,” he replied, finally tearing his eyes away from his “guide.”

“Roxas.” He held out his hand, and Roxas watched it warily before tentatively reaching out and grasping it. To his surprise, it connected, and the guy felt solid. “Name's Axel.” He pulled his hand away and put it back in the pocket of his impossibly tight jeans. “Let's get going, yeah? Got a lot of stuff to cover.”

Despite his better judgment, as Axel walked away, Roxas felt himself following. The pull returned.

Roxas drew in a sharp breath, one he hoped Axel didn't notice. Because now, to his surprise—and maybe dismay—the source of the pull was right in front of him.


End file.
